That light behind the Olympics at supper hour—
it takes a sky of clouds from here to there
to spot the sun, seam and snow just right.

I envy the violinist, the trainer of a mahogany bird
perched on his shoulder.

They carried the lamps out as if they were children.

The piano remained in the hall, like an obelisk,
as if to haunt the place we had to leave;

   Grieving takes its lyric turns,
         anciently,
            sometimes en pointe.

    Lack-luster      We told them these were our “long, empty
     friends and     hours” and that we’d nap or primp,
acquaintances     but instead we rose to all the trappings

Dear Emile, I'm tolerating the tribute
of these flowers in the garden you once planted—
their modulating wits, the conspiratorial

Gothic flowers bedded themselves
in the edges of this night, the night
when a bullet pierced her rib precisely,

An anemone
                                     comes a little furtively,
                                         only slightly—it waits to be drawn.

Gaily experienced and somewhat accidental
The disaster which overtook them
Surrounded the discameled travelers.